


In Search of The Dragonborn

by roxfox1962 (roxfox62)



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen, Multi, Skyrim Trailer Oneshots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-10
Updated: 2012-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 16:29:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxfox62/pseuds/roxfox1962
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Good and Bad looking for the legend.  Includes all races and a few beasties.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He had lain dormant for far too long, centuries of dust and spring-melt moisture having encased his body within a stony shroud. Many an era had passed as he slumbered while waiting for the Amulet to break. Waiting for the age of man to fall. The last of those with Alessia and Akatosh's blood must be hunted down and destroyed, forever forgotten. The time of the gods was nigh.  
As awareness awakened him, one eye opened to the dark, dank haven he called home. The cavern was hidden from mortal eyes, magically protected from invasion while he slept. He struggled mightily, heaving the weight of the mortared rubble from his scaly body. He stretched his neck, arched his back, swept his tail from side to side, and finally spread out enormous leathery wings. The skin beneath his scales itched, covered with lichen, moss, and insects nesting therein. He hungered, his belly empty for so long. When finally free, he would first feed upon the flesh of animal, and then feast upon the warriors of this land.  
He was the king here, upon this mountain. Ruler of all he surveyed. The cave, his throne-room, prison, and protection, was blocked by boulders and ages-old ice; but not for much longer. He could feel the breath returning to him. The elements were his to manipulate, fire being his greatest ally.  
The Dragonborn would not be difficult for him to locate. The power of Akatosh sang from the little one's soul, resonating with the core of his own being. The Nords were a feisty lot, but even they could not withstand the strength of his dragon-breath. He had to destroy the Prophesied One, before it became lucky enough to destroy him.  
It would be a battle for his very essence, he knew, as mortals always crave the power of the gods. The success of the Dragonborn relied upon the magicks of the dragon - all of his kith would be in danger of being sacrificed. He would not let his spirit become the source of power for such an insignificant creature. Nor would he allow his brothers and sisters to fall. Not while he still had breath to breathe.  
The dragon inhaled deeply, and then released a great blast of fire. The boulders disintegrated as the ice transformed into a swirling vortex of steam dissipating into the cold mountain air. He was free!  
Crawling through the narrow portal to the ledge outside, he was thankful for the darkness of the night. His eyes would need time to adjust to the light of day.  
The great beast reared up on his hind legs, wings waving slowly to and fro in preparation for flight under the stars, triumphant in his release. With a trumpeting bellow he leapt off the ledge. First he would feed…then he would fight.  
Let the hunt begin.


	2. The Raving Lunatic

He felt the blare of Hircine's Horn tear through his body, and heard the Daedric Prince's orders clearly through his otherwise clouded thoughts. Another Hunt had begun. This one, though, was not a game. Lord Hircine was adamant: there were to be no survivors.

The Nord King's palace overflowed with newly-spilt royal blood. Skyrim had no leader, and the strife had brought about one who could re-unite Tamriel. The Daedric Lords wanted the prophesied upstart dead. They had already decided to claim the land for themselves, and would tolerate no interference in their plans.

Though still on the outskirts of Skyrim, he knew the blessings of strength and added life-force his master had promised would make the travel swift, his destination attainable in one night. Any who deigned to notice his presence in this small mountain village, other than those who threw a coin at him to ease their guilt-ridden minds, would soon see the change in his demeanor. As the night drew nearer, he could feel the sleeping wolf stir deep within him. Agitated, he sprang from his shelter, darting to the woods surrounding the bustling hamlet. He dared not show his 'other' side to these people, not while Hircine had such urgent need of him.

The town folk were startled by the sudden dash, but relieved at his departure; the frantic eyes and ranting shouts of the madman had unnerved them all.

As the sun settled itself beneath the darkening horizon, he could feel the change, the burning, begin. His insides were the first to alter; senses, ribs and groin. Smells and sounds began to sharpen, overwhelm. His chest heaved, buckled, stretched, and widened, allowing for the newly enormous lungs. Bones along his back and groin re-allocated; joints and muscles shifted as hips realigned. He continued to run, gasping as he tore at the tattered rags covering his body, his rapidly lengthening talons shredding the stained, odourous cloth with ease.

His skin suddenly erupted. Tearing, ripping, rending agony. The pain drove him to the brink of madness. He shrieked his anguish, vaguely aware of the deepening timbre of his voice as it became a snarling bawl in mid-scream.

Thick fur sprouted through torn and flapping flesh, rippling in the wind. He tripped, falling upon the cold, hard ground, too overwhelmed to continue on. The worst was yet to come as his bones and muscles strived to co-ordinate themselves. Curling up into a ball, his fevered mind felt on the verge of exploding out of a re-forming skull and face as his transformation continued.

.

His snout twitched and furry ears pricked up, absorbing the scents and sounds wafting in the gentle wind. He began to salivate at the smell of deer; he was hungry. When strong enough, he would slake his thirst for blood while feeding upon the flesh of the unsuspecting prey. He'd soon be ready to answer Hircine's call.

.

The mountain-folk shuddered with horror as the howls echoed off the cliffs surrounding their little village. Shadows crept and slithered around the oil-lamps and candles while they huddled together, fearfully praying for the new day to dawn.


	3. The Queen of Spiders

Hiding in the shadows, she patiently watched the progress of the unwitting victim. A myriad of webs were woven to cut off all escape should the rotting creature try to run. The steady drip of melting icicles echoed softly in the dark, keeping time with the slow, swinging shuffle of the walking corpse. Having no ears she could not hear it, but her ability to feel the slightest vibration in the air was more than enough to keep her well-fed on these decrepit things.

Though the dead had little to no blood, an injection of her digestive juices would enable the extraction of all accessible nutrients from its form. The sheer number of animated corpses meandering listlessly throughout her lair ensured constant nourishment for her young; their hunger never abated.

She'd lost count of the generations of children raised here. Many daughters remained within these dank walls, content with the readily available food source. Only her sons dared leave the nest. Born hunters, they were strong enough to depart when of age to mate. A much better fate than becoming fodder for their sisters.

The web twitched. The prey was caught! Her pedipalps quivered in anticipation. Long, sharp claws clicked on the rocky ground as she sped towards the ensnared zombie. Unexpectedly, a shadowy, shrouded form abruptly appeared before her meal: Namira. The Spirit Daedra!

Queen of her kind, she feared none - none except the Daedra. Dagger-like talons scraped against the rock and damp debris; dozens of knees locked in an attempt to prevent a potential collision. Eventually in control of her great, bloated body, she scrambled back in supplication. The Daedric Prince of Ancient Darkness rarely called, and then only if desperate measures were needed. She quaked in terror, and tried to keep her hairs from shaking as the Prince began to speak.

"Long-forgotten omens have shown themselves, my child," Namira droned in an eerie, other-worldly voice. "Foretold darkness has been disrupted by a gleam of light. This destroyer of our plans will pass by your nest. I entrust with you the task of eliminating him. Extinguish his spark for me, and you will be well rewarded."

The Queen of Spiders slowly brought her fangs together, showing deference, as well as a little confusion. Who is this light-bringer? When will he arrive?

Calmly, without expression or emotion, Namira answered. "You will know by the sense of him. He has…omniscient blood within his veins. Do not worry, for I will give you the perception needed to become aware of his arrival."

With a slight snap of the wrist, swirling energy erupted from Namira's hand; a blue and gold wisp of magic immediately surrounded the Queen, engulfing her, shimmering over her enormous being. The shock of her new abilities almost overwhelmed her. Her eyesight instantly sharpened, defining the once blurry objects scattered about the dark cave. Her hairs tingled, already feeling the wind gusting past the faraway entrance to her secluded home. She swayed slightly as unbridled strength surged and pulsated throughout her body.

Thrilled, she reached out with her forelegs to thank the Prince for the enchantment, but Namira's form had vanished as quickly and silently as it had appeared.

The Queen of Spiders had purpose for the first time in a long, long while. Her most pressing challenge at this time would be in finding a mate to bring forth more children. Hopefully the younglings would be blessed with her new abilities, ensuring her immortality.

The echoing chittering from a multitude of fangs could be heard from the ceiling as she ventured towards the outdoors.

Long live the Queen.


	4. The Khajiit, Imperial, Argonian, Bosmer, Altmer and Orc with ASoIaF Monikers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so's you know - quean: an overly forward, impudent woman; shrew; hussy.
> 
> O.o

Wave upon wave of swirling alpine snows relentlessly whipped the weary travelers, their protection in the forests having shriveled up. The once tall, broad trees had steadily transformed into stunted, twisted shrubbery snaking along the ground, with low jagged branches slashing shod and unshod feet alike. Cave, edge of cliff, and treacherous mountain pass became obscured by stinging shards of frozen rain. Biting winds tore through flailing cloaks, rimy robes, and creaking armour with zealous ferocity, crushing the group's already fading morale with brutal contempt. Skyrim gleefully unleashed her savage temperament as she tested the presumptuous intruders for weakness, eagerly watching for mistakes.

Surly northern weather was expected this time of year, but the last few days of constant cold, hunger, and exhaustion began to eat away at individual resolve, causing each to question the sanity of the mission. Southerners all, they were ill-equipped for the north's somewhat bestial nature.

.

Drogo the Khajiit was at the fore, taking on the brunt of the blizzard. Towering over the others, his height alone made him a veritable wall of defense against the storm. Or so the group consensus said. How unfortunate for him that he was jungle-born and desert-raised. His normally luxurious pelt was fitting protection in the searing heat of northern Elsweyr, but matted, dampened fur provided little respite from the constant onslaught of ice and snow; leather armour and leggings even less so. Striking black-on-orange stripes, marking him a member of the Senche-Tiger tribe, were lost beneath a glistening, hoary shroud covering everything from tufted ears to naked furry toes. Horrifyingly, even his whiskers suffered, piteously bowing beneath the weight of tiny icicles.

His stoic temperament was being challenged to previously unknown limits, seething thoughts turning to the one who sent him on this path. The leader, the Mane, who chose him for this disastrous journey (and took his braid), would have much to answer for upon his return to Dune…

.

Samwell the Imperial followed closely behind the giant cat-man, his own enormous girth creating even more of a shield for those in the rear. It took every ounce of effort and concentration to stay afoot on the icy path, his quaking heart hammering with such intensity he believed it ready to burst through his chest. What lunacy had made him think he could be heroic? The Imperial City, though fraught with duplicity and sedition, seemed much safer now that he'd experienced true terror on this trek through uncivilized terrain. He prayed to the Nine that they'd find refuge before he collapsed from exertion or became lost in the drifts, never to be seen again.

The only human in this motley crew, he was unsure why the Argonian had insisted on his presence. Yes, he was well-versed in history and languages. Yes, he was well-spoken and diplomatic (something clearly lacking in the deportment of the others); unfortunately, he was not the adventurous type. The vision of being a hero more than made up for any quibbles at the start, but the Spectre of Death loomed ever closer now, clearly anticipating the succulent feast his rather imprudent spirit would provide…

.

Cersei the Argonian silently cursed the bitter weather, struggling to keep her emotions in check. She could feel her skin colour fluctuating in response to the stress. It would not do for the others to discover any weakness on her part. Unprotected scaled feet burned from the cold as she shivered uncontrollably in velvet-lined robe and sable cloak. She had plotted and planned the outcome of this excursion for so long - the thought of failure when the goal was within her grasp was simply too painful to contemplate.

A highborn daughter in the House of Tuatara, one of two surviving lineages of Argonia's ancient Sphenodontians, she was well aware of the importance of success amongst her kin. It was unfortunate that cold-blooded lizard-folk were deemed unwelcome in this icebound, stormy land of Skyrim; an indomitable will alone kept her going. She had little choice but to persist. To ensure the continuity of her family's power and influence, that damnable wall had to be found!

Ever since the secession of Argonia from the Empire, her House had carefully watched for signs of prophesies unfolding. Dragons and Dovahkiins were notable omens of approaching doom for Argonian independence. Were a Dovahkiin able to rise, a new empire would be born – a new emperor crowned! Such a thing could not come to pass! Her companions didn't need to know of her true agenda. They only had to assist her in unlocking the secrets of Alduin's Wall, and she would do the rest…

.

Arya the Wood Elf could see no further than the tips of her boiled leather boots as she struggled to keep up. One foot in front of another…one more step...one…more...step; though she made a small target for sword and arrow, the wind had no difficulty buffeting her diminutive body to and fro with disdainful ease. Facing the possibility of death-by-mountain-plunge, only now did she consider the suicidal aspect of this task she had promised to complete.

Valenwood's newest prophet, The Precursor, had called for a Tribal Council amongst the Bosmer clans to voice the concerns of Y'ffre, their Forest God. Great changes were coming from the land of Skyrim, and a scout was needed to discover the source. Her curious nature challenged, she'd volunteered, believing her inborn skills up to the task. Too late she'd realized that Bosmer abilities were all but useless here. Beast tongue, marksmanship, and stealth were impractical in the fight against snow storms, steep slopes, and slippery rock.

Homesickness had been a constant companion since leaving the comfort and familiarity of the Great Forests. She began to pray that the gods would allow her to return, safe and whole, to her family once more.

.

Melisandre the High Elf was unsettled. Experience told her that their mission was not going well. A sinister dark spirit had found them, and seemed intent on bringing about their demise. The fiery resolve that once burned fiercely beneath her golden skin was cooling, sputtering in the fury of an endless ice-storm. Magicks ever at her command were failing against the wrath of a cold, heartless northern god. The ruby-red exquisite amulet at her throat was nearly drained, it's enchantment of protection almost spent. She had plenty of soul gems, but they were empty. A sacrifice had to made, and soon, or she would eventually succumb to the elements - always a concern of an Altmer from the Summerset Isles.

For centuries she had been driven by ancient predictions, fixed in her resolve. Finding the Promised One was vital to the future of Tamriel; bringing light into this land of darkness her sole reason for being here. Life and death were irrelevant matters when considering the importance of the Dovahkiin! All at her side were expendable, considering the outcome of failure…

.

Brienne the Orc was undaunted by the climate, gritty determination evident in every facet of her being, from steely gaze to broad, tusked mouth, and resolute footfall. Giving her already rough visage an even more frightening appearance, the Orcish armour nonetheless sheltered her from the worst of the tempest, the chill made insignificant by the solemnity of her purpose.

Like most of her kind, she was a wanderer – an outcast. Unlike most other Orcs, however, she was indifferent to the fanaticism that kept the Orsimer population split, leaving them incapable of forming a strong enough alliance amongst themselves to carve out a homeland of their own. Her faith lay in the dream of a united Tamriel…something only the Dragon-born would be capable of creating, if the legends be true.

She'd sworn to give her life to find the savior, and could not fail in her quest to locate the Dovahkiin – the only one able to bless her people with a new Orsinium.

.

As the wind whistled past painfully freezing ears, Samwell heard Drogo's shouted warning too late. He stumbled over a root, pitching headfirst into the snowdrift – only to find himself tumbling downwards, head over heels, into a dark yawning void. Squeaking with fright, he scrambled to his feet once he hit the ground, frantically seeking a nearby exit. Colossal stalagmites and stalactites blocked most of his view. An unnatural glow radiated from crooked and crumbling pillars, casting ghostly, flickering shadows all about him. Gulping, he peered upwards, blinking rapidly in the gently wafting snowfall. He could barely discern the heads of his companions peering down at him from above. Cersei's luminous green eyes, and Melisandre's glinting red eyes were strangely comforting, as terrified of them as he was.

"Fret not, Imperial!" Brienne shouted over the wind. "We will find a way to rescue you!"

Whimpering, Samwell huddled against a stalagmite and waited for his salvation.

.

Arya darted around the vicinity of the newly found fissure, thumping the surrounding walls of rock and ice with the handle of her shortsword. The rest were angrily debating the wisdom of searching for the Imperial when they heard her shout.

"It's a frozen waterfall! The entrance to the cave is at the rear!"

"A useful Bosmer. How precious," Cersei sneered, irritated by the delay.

With narrowed eyes, Brienne scowled at the Argonian. "Keep your tongue civil, lizard, or I will remove it."

Quailing at the idea of being Orc-handled, Cersei chose to remain silent. The others knew well of Brienne's unwavering devotion to the snippy young Wood Elf, so kept their thoughts to themselves as they carefully hiked down the twisting passageway into the eerie gloom.

Showing fearlessness apparent only in the young or foolish, Arya sprinted across the unfamiliar cave, calling out for Samwell as she ran. Faint whimpering led them to the Imperial's 'hiding spot' beneath the snowy gap.

Almost sobbing with relief, Samwell pushed himself to his feet when they came into view. "Thank the Nine! I was beginning to think you'd thought me lost."

"Impossible!" Arya grinned. "You're too big to lose."

Samwell returned the grin with a shy smile of his own, which died a moment later when he heard an unsettling echo emanating from the far end of the cavern.

"Fire! We need fire!" Melisandre cried out, red eyes peering suspiciously into the surrounding darkness.

Cersei glared at the High Elf. "Your insane pyromania aside, witch, a simple Light spell will do just fine in here."

"No, that won't do!" Melisandre shook her head. "Look at the alcoves along the wall!"

As one, the group allowed their gazes to be directed by her long, golden finger. Almost hidden in the shadows, faintly glowing runes could be seen covering crudely chiseled granite blocks.

Drogo shrugged. "Nothing there but rock, gold-skin," he growled, newly-freed whiskers twitching in irritation as he shook his furred body to remove the crusted snow.

"Exactly!" Melisandre frowned at the Khajiit. Though a powerful warrior, Drogo could be rather thick at times. "As this appears to be a tomb, there should be bodies lying on those hallowed stones. I sense great evil at work here!"

"I've studied runes from past ages and civilizations." Samwell cautiously crept over to one of the flattened stones. "Perhaps I can decipher these ones." Squinting at first, his eyes widened with sudden excitement. "These are names and titles!" He scurried from slab to slab. "Eddard the Cryptic; Robert the Procreant; Aerys II the Twitchy; Viserys the Molten…there's too much damage on the others to make them out, but this is definitely a resting place for the dead."

"You had better find us an exit from this deathtrap, Bosmer." Cersei glared at Arya. "Use your special eyesight to find an escape route. Empty slabs mean undead enemies!"

Unperturbed, Brienne sought to ease their tension. "We have nothing to fear, unless we're within in a Barrow."

"The walking dead are dangerous, though," Arya said to no one in particular. "I don't want to die, and then become undead. If they bite you, you become one of them. Everyone knows that."

"It is known," said Drogo, nodding solemnly.

"And I don't have 'special eyesight', quean...Eye of Night is a Khajiit ability." Arya sniffed.

Mollified, Cersei tried her best to form a smile upon her rigid lips for the young Wood Elf's benefit. "Given your new-found respect for my station, girl, I am willing to follow your lead for the moment."

Snickering, Arya nudged Samwell. "Nine Hells! She thinks I called her a queen. Stupid quean."

Samwell blushed as he opened his mouth to reply, only to choke, spluttering and gasping in horror at the sight before him. "D…d…dead people!"

Five heads turned to see what the Imperial's newest panic was about, and were stunned at the sight. A dozen blackened, rotting bodies teetered in their direction. Demonic blue flames flared from long dead eyes; rusted swords, axes, bows and shields swayed to and fro as they gathered in an obvious battle formation.

Brienne was the first to react. Unsheathing her longsword, she cried out, "Draugr! Arya, Samwell…to me!" She flung her tower shield at the cringing Imperial as he ran past. "Protect yourself, man!"

Drogo instantly leapt to the Orc's side with his great battleaxe to the fore, creating more of a screen for the rest of the companions. Side by side, the two massive warriors swung their weapons in unison, allowing the adrenaline-inducing song of sharp steel slicing through damp air to linger; high, sweet notes hinting at the glory to come.

Melisandre bellowed at them from behind. "Stand aside! Let the fires show them their death!"

They raced back to the Altmer's side, and watched with wide eyes and bated breath, feeling the surge of energy pulsating from her, seeing the ripple of heat in the air. When the inferno finally burst from her hands, they were unprepared for the explosion that rocked the cavern from ceiling to floor. The group hurtled backwards as the draugr were consumed by the blast, disintegrating into ash and dust almost instantaneously.

.

Relieved to still be in one piece, Cersei pushed herself up from the ground, immediately noticing something odd in the wall where the draugr had appeared moments before. Walking slowly at first, she began to quicken her pace when realization hit her. Excitement overcame caution as she began to run. A hidden doorway! She held her breath as she passed through the secret entrance, brilliant green eyes brightening as Alduin's Wall came into view. Finally! Now to finish what she'd set out to do...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh noes! A cliffhanger! Argh! Darned GRRM! [glares]
> 
> -Will Drogo survive the blast?
> 
> -Will Brienne ever complete her quest?
> 
> -Will Arya finally get to go home?
> 
> -Will Cersei eventually learn the difference between a queen and a quean?
> 
> -Will Samwell realize he has 'nads?
> 
> -Will Melisandre know a real Promised One from a fake one?
> 
> Heh heh heh…we'll find out in 2 to 6 years from now! XD


	5. The Indoril Warrior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cranky Dark Elf on the hunt for a wayward Nord...

_Mephala and Azura are the twin gates of tradition and Boethiah is the secret flame._

"Grrr!" Stomp.

_The sun shall be eaten by lions, which cannot be found yet in Veloth._

"Raargh!" Slash. Kick.

_Six are the vests and garments worn by the suppositions of men._

"Damn you, you… nwah!" Stab. Stab. Stab.

Tumin snarled in frustration at the bush blocking his path. Heat from the sun was welcome in the cold shadows of the western Velothi Mountains bordering Skyrim, but only if one was not wearing Ebony Armour. The weight alone caused him to sweat profusely; he could feel his body steaming beneath the heavy volcanic glass. He was slowly being poached alive, and all for some vague words spoken by an historically interfering busy-body of a Daedric Prince: _Azura_. Once again he cursed himself for not having had the foresight to train in light glass armour, which would have been a much easier burden to bear on this obscure trek. The Dark Elf had tried ridding his mind of his currently steamy state by mentally reciting some of Vivec's Lessons, but now found himself at a physical and spiritual impasse. Vivec's Sixth Lesson wasn't doing anything to bolster his flagging spirit, so he felt it necessary to switch tactics. Morrowind history was something that he did know, having lived through much of it.

_In the beginning, there was the Prophet Veloth._

Well, more like: _'In the First Era, the Dunmer were initially a group of Aldmer ostracized for worshipping their Daedric Ancestors'_. The damnable mountain range surrounding him was named after the long-dead Aldmer Prophet-turned-Saint who had led the outcasts from persecution, so it seemed as good a time-period as any to start with. Tumin glared at the wall of alpine scrub stonewalling his progress. What had Veloth been thinking of when he led his followers across the lands of Tamriel, and then over these cold, vacuous rocks? _Pfft_. Grumbling, Tumin continued to hack, slash, and stab his way through the insolent vegetation before him.

_Lo and behold, the incoming Aldmer found their new-found land already inhabited by a diminutive folk known as the Dwemer._

That the Dwemer had already named the eastern land Dwemereth was not surprising, nor was the constant conflict between the two peoples. The dwellers of the deep were a secretive, irreverent lot, preferring to focus on the construction of machinery to elevate their spirits rather than humbly worship the Daedra as the newly renamed Chimer did. Admittedly, the Dwemer architecture still amazed him. He could see the glint of ancient Dwemer domes dotting the peaks from where he stood. Now to find one of their indestructible roads! Though old and almost forgotten, roads leading to the enduring ruins were as fixed as the mountains themselves.

_Then came the Great Houses: Dagoth, Dres, Hlaalu, Redoran, Telvanni, and the greatest of them all, Indoril._

Of course, House Indoril wasn't the greatest just because Tumin was an Indoril. The personification of Chimer perfection, Lord-King Nerevar, was the first of the Indoril, and it only made sense that the House of the original Hortator had to be the finest, as well.

"Hah!" The warrior smugly surveyed the now shredded brush, and proceeded to angrily trample over the stumpy remains as he passed by. Heavy armour was good for stomping on things, at least.

_Some pesky Nords swooped down upon the land from the northwestern mountains, so the kings of the Dwemer and Chimer – Dumac Dwarfking (or DwarfOrc as some suggest) and Indoril Nerevar – formed an alliance to smite them. Thus the First Council was born. They renamed the land Resdayn, living in relative peace until the War of the First Council came to pass._

Tumin growled bitterly as he fought against the steady incline of the rugged trail, his ruby-red eyes constantly searching for the path of least resistance. He was all too aware of upcoming mobility issues upon these wind-blown, icy slopes. Determination borne from long years of arduous training kept him focused, though. Those left of the House of Nerevar did not easily declare defeat, and he refused to be the first to do so.

_A Dwemer Tonal Architect, Kagrenac, found part of an Aedra, Lorkhan's Heart, and secretly constructed a monstrous metal golem to contain it. His arcane tools - Wraithguard, Keening, and Sunder - were crafted to tune into the vibrations of the god's heart. Red Mountain, the gigantic volcano residing on the island of Vvardenfell, was where the War of the First Council came to a head after Nerevar challenged Dumac about the creation of the god-hearted golem, Numidium. When the dust finally settled, the Dwemer vanished. All (but one) were instantaneously wiped out, erased from the face of Tamriel. Historians are conflicted about the events of this time. Some scholars say Dumac allied himself with the Nords, Orcs, and House Dagoth against the Dres, Hlaalu, Indoril, Redoran, and Telvanni Houses. Others claim Lord-General Voryn Dagoth to be the one who had informed Indoril Nerevar of the dangerous new golem-god, and begged the Chimer king to find a way to destroy the works of Kagrenac_.

Success at last! He was nearing the summit where a stony bridge spanned the ravine. Tumin clambered up the shallow incline, and felt a momentary surge of relief when the outline of a building came into view. Shelter!

_The most sinister version of First Era history concerns Nerevar's wife, Queen Almalexia, along with his most trusted counselors, Sotha Sil the Mage, and Vivec the Philosopher. Some believe the three conspired against their king once they learned of the power of Kagrenac's Tools. While guarding the tools for Nerevar, Lord Dagoth played around with said tools, and instantly became Evil Personified, whereupon he changed his name to Dagoth Ur. Nerevar was murdered before the artifacts could be destroyed, at which point Almalexia, Sotha Sil, and Vivec also played around with Kagrenac's Tools, transforming into Goodly Living Gods – the Tribunal. Outraged by the regicide, and the proclamations of god-hood, Azura called forth a curse upon all the Chimer, changing their golden skin to ash-grey and their eyes to dark red. From then on they were known as the Dunmer_.

As Tumin walked quickly towards the would-be haven, he noticed shadows flickering around the Dwemer ruin. Raising his eyes skyward, he groaned in disbelief. "Oh, no." Cliff-racers. Lots of cliff-racers. He sighed heavily, and looked for another shelter nearby. _Hmph_. Only this one was accessible. Grasping the spear at his back, he strode towards the ruin. Tumin focused on the upcoming jabbing, skewering, and stabbing of bothersome winged pests, feeling the semblance of a smile tug at his lips. Finally facing a somewhat worthy foe was fitting for his Warrior status; it was just a matter of waiting for them to quit their cowardly hovering and begin their descent.

_Exactly when Resdayn became Morrowind is not clear. In historical documents, by the time Emperors Reman II and III attempted to conquer Morrowind during the Four Score War, Resdayn had simply ceased to exist. Thankfully, so did the Reman Dynasty once they were all assassinated, bringing an end to the First Era. Mehrunes Dagon's decision to choose this time to invade and destroy the Indoril city of Mournhold was rather unsettling for the Dunmer. Almalexia and Sotha Sil were able to cast the Daedric Lord back into Oblivion, but arrived too late to save the city. Why Dagon felt the need to destroy the Dark Elves at the end of eras still has them mystified_.

Tumin watched the circling, flying vermin cautiously, and continued to wait.

_The Second Era was relatively uneventful outside of a few Dunmer House wars, the introduction of various Guilds, unchecked assassinations, a continent-wide killer flu, and an attempted invasion by the Akaviri. The Vvardenfell Island Dunmer had yet to realize the sheer number of Ash critters dwelling in their midst. Most likely because the ghoulish creatures preferred to remain hidden behind the Ghostfence erected around Red Mountain, built by the Tribunal to contain the Evil Dagoth Ur._

Still waiting, he halfheartedly jabbed up at the slowly descending beasts. If only he'd learned the art of archery! His mana was limited, so fire spells were a last resort.

_The Third Era was ushered in by Emperor Tiber Septim, father of the Septim Dynasty. Realizing the Dunmer were too long-lived and stubborn a people to wage an endless war with, he worked out a deal through the goodly Living God Vivec. With Morrowind in line, the Empire was nigh-complete. It was a somewhat strategic advantage that Tiber's right hand man – General Symmachus – was himself a Dunmer. The traditionalists within the Dres, Indoril, and Redoran Houses were outraged by the concessions. Many of the highest ranking Indoril showed their keen disapproval by committing suicide. Though the Dres and Redoran Houses refused to show their disgust by offing themselves, their influence waned without Indoril support. Dres compensated their losses by siding with Hlaalu, the merchants of Morrowind, and the Redoran threw their lot in with the Tribunal Temple_.

The cliff-racers were finally close enough to start their tail-stabbing tactics, so he raised his spear to rebuff them. This was an old tried-and-true dance to Tumin. He concentrated on the oneness of body, arm and spear, especially the twisting thrusts and pulls that accompanied gouging. It was only a matter of minutes before cliff-racer corpses littered the cobbled ground at his feet. He knew better than to touch them, for they were carriers of debilitating diseases. Letting them be, the Dunmer stumbled wearily over their bodies to the entrance.

_Not long after Tiber's 'conquest', General Symmachus married the newly appointed Queen Barenziah. A few centuries later they had a son, Helseth and a daughter, Morgiah. House Hlaalu has been rejoicing ever since. House Telvanni detached themselves from the Great House politics, choosing a life of isolation in the northeastern islands, and none felt a need to pressure them to join in. Whispered stories of thousand-year-olds who were half blind, mostly deaf, and gifted with the ability to invoke an arsenal of deadly spells simultaneously was enough to keep most life-loving folk far, far away._

As he passed through the ancient doorway, Tumin mulled over the purpose of his quest, and almost snorted in disgust. Azura had recently shown herself to a Redoran priestess in a dream, informing her of the upcoming battle between mortals and gods. Hmph! Daedric presence had brought about many of the disasters within Morrowind, the most notable being the Oblivion Crisis. He for one objected to their interference. Especially the sneaky ones that crept into dreams to go on about _'Oh, forsooth, the end is nigh!'_ According to the history books, the end was _always_ nigh.

The Aedric Gods and Daedric Ancestors were embroiled in a struggle for control of mortal spirit, and Azura was flitting around giving visions of a Nordic man in a dungeon cell. Tumin sniffed. Those damned barbarians were always causing trouble, and the journey to free a securely contained rabble-rouser irritated him to no end. But, she wanted this Nord protected; most likely from himself, no doubt. Nords were quite infamous for running amok through ice and snow wearing little more than a bit of war-paint and strategically placed pelts as armour. With great relief he noted the absence of enemies within the ruin, mechanical or otherwise. Ancient Dwemer ghosts were the _worst_ kind of fiends. After setting down his weaponry and supplies, he began to peel the armour off his aching body.

_When Tiber Septim died he became a member of the Aedra, to be known thereafter as Talos. Sad to say, the newest god did not seem overly eager to answer the prayers of his descendants; the most obviously ignored being the poor, pious Uriel Septim VII. Much strife occurred during the occupation of the Septim Dynasty. The hiding and eventual finding of ancient artifacts, royal family feuds, and provincial rebellions were commonplace events._

_Then, near the close of the Third Era, along came the Nerevarine. By this time Vvardenfell was slowly being consumed by the Blight storms and Ash monstrosities in the service of the Evil Dagoth Ur, whose long forgotten House, Dagoth, had been renamed The Sixth House, and mainly consisted of Ash Vampires, Ash Ghouls, and Ascended Sleepers. A young Breton mage, an Outlander, mysteriously appeared on the island one day, changing their lives forever. Rumours of her membership in Uriel Septim VIIs Order of the Blades made her the focus of persecution by the Tribunal Temple, and its most devoted followers, but she overcame the opposition and prevailed._

Tumin moaned in relief as he removed his gauntlets, helm, boots, and pauldrons.

_Her first obstacle had been to garner the acceptance of the Ashlanders - a stubborn group of nomadic Dunmer content to remain separate from the politics of the Great Houses. The second objective, becoming the warlord of the Clans and Houses, the Hortator, was an impressive deed in itself considering Vvardenfell's contempt for outlanders. It was probably a blessing that only three Houses had presence on the island: Hlaalu, Redoran, and Telvanni. Finding the cure for the highly contagious and deadly Corprus disease she had contracted from Sixth House dwellers must have been horrific, but the final quest, the monumental battle to defeat the powerful Dagoth Ur, was an incredible feat. Even the Tribunal of Living Gods could not accomplish such a thing. The knowledge that she wore the fabled ring of Nerevar, Azura's cursed Moon-and-Star, became common enough to enable the island-wide acceptance of the Breton. Though her name remains lost to historians, she was the Nerevarine, as the ring could only be worn by Nerevar or his incarnation._

"Ahhhhhh." The stench emanating off his sweating body did not deter a deep sigh as he removed the cuirass and greaves.

_After Dagoth Ur was killed and the Blight storms purged from the island, dark rumours of the seemingly heroic Breton ran rampant throughout Morrowind. Whenever she visited a Living God, that god would disappear, never to be seen or heard from again. Then one day she vanished as well. The Nerevarine was last seen on a boat heading towards the east. Akavir, perhaps? No one knows._

Tumin decided to rest before mucking around with fire and food. He was exhausted. A short nap wouldn't hurt, surely. His mind drifted as he yawned, stretched, and rubbed his eyes. Even though he had cursed the request to pursue this folly, he was aware of the Redoran unease. Dutiful, pious, and sullen as they were, fear was uncommon amongst the Red House warriors.

Something terrible and fierce, a beast not seen for thousands of years, had cast an enormous shadow over the mountain border of the Northern Coast Region. He'd been 'volunteered' to seek out the source of the terror in the land of Skyrim. As demeaning as it was to bow to the wishes of the Redoran, most of his House had been reduced to refugee status after the disappearance of the Living Gods: to refuse the request would have been churlish.

_Without the Living God to keep it afloat, the air-borne Ministry of Truth had crashed into the City of Vivec, causing a massive eruption of Red Mountain. The island was demolished, and much of the mainland was destroyed in the aftermath. Only pockets of northern and southern Morrowind were spared undue calamity_.

Until the Argonian invasion overwhelmed the south, that is. That was when the fear and desperation truly began for many of his kin. Fortunately, he and a few fellow Indoril brothers found refuge in the Redoran north. At least there he was sheltered and relatively safe. Trust Azura to come along and spoil it all.

There were only had a few more of days of travel ahead of him now that he'd found the Dwemer roadway, but locating the imprisoned Nord? Now that was going to be a real challenge.

"Ah, the things we do for Gods and Ancestors," he grumbled, praying Azura would know better than to invade _his_ dreams.


	6. A Breton, a Redguard, and some Nords (or The Nerevarine in Skyrim)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title says all!

The noonday sun radiated in the cloudless sky. A rare event in the Dragontail Mountains border of Skyrim, Agnomen knew, but even the normally shy orb could not help being overjoyed by a visitation from the phenomenon known as Merisoo.

A few feet in front of him walked the focus of the adoration. Every part of the Breton glistened, gleamed, and glowed as the sun's rays lovingly caressed her platinum blonde hair, alabaster skin, and almond-shaped azure eyes, while dancing jubilantly over her ancient, fabled armour, weaponry, and jewelry - most of which were written of in time-worn tomes. The Ebony Mail, the left Fist of Randagulf, Wraithguard on her right, Eleidon's Ward, the Helm of Oreyn Bearclaw. All of these and more, he'd found to his chagrin, made it impossible to destroy her. The Redguard and his equipment, on the other hand, could only be described as disheveled, dusty, rusty, and dingy...as everything inevitably looked when in the presence of his companion.

Agnomen silently cursed every god, all magic, and most vehemently, the person who'd found the Breton's unconscious form washed up on an Iliac Bay beach. He shifted the weighty sack over to his other shoulder, glaring at the unencumbered woman gaily skipping over the fallen rubble on their path. If she picked one more flower, or chased one more bug, or raided one more bird's nest, he would...he would...

Well, in truth, he wasn't sure what he could do to Merisoo, as she was akin to a walking, talking god, but he would attempt to make it a terrifically bloody event, even if she was virtually indestruc...

"Aiiiiiiiii..."

A high-pitched, piercing screech snapped him out of his reverie. Dropping the sack to grab at the hilt of his sword, the Redguard warrior spun around, weapon partly unsheathed, in search of the source of the gods-awful racket. Five Nords - three men, and what appeared to be two women - charged frantically through a copse of juniper trees, all wide-eyed with terror as they ran towards him.

"Run! Run! Run for your lives!"

The largest of the bunch (the one blessed with the ear-splitting shriek), dressed in a foppish manner, and clutching a mandolin in white-knuckled hands, shoved against Agnomen in his haste, knocking the Redguard off balance. Turning back to call for assistance, Agnomen saw Merisoo raise her arms and whisper a few words. The Nords collectively froze in their tracks, mercifully cutting short further screams.

"What did you do to them?" he asked as he surveyed the area, on the lookout for the cause of the panic.

"An old paralyzing spell I learned in Morrowind known as the Medusa's Gaze. They'll be free to move about in a few seconds."

No pursuers in sight, Agnomen quietly re-sheathed his sword. "The danger appears to have passed," he said, "if there even was one to start with. These people don't seem prepared to do battle with anything, not even bad taste."

Giving the immobile group his full attention, he shook his head in disbelief at what he saw. The tallest man was young, yet bald, clad in a yellow exquisite robe, and had no obvious weapon in sight. The largest man was heavy-set, middle-aged, wearing an assortment of brightly hued apparel that only the colour-blind could truly appreciate. Considering the way he grasped the mandolin's headstock with both hands, he seemed to believe it was a viable weapon. The shortest man was the leanest, fully armoured in steel as he was, with a tower shield and longsword at the fore. As for the women, one was definitely female, wearing light armour, and carrying both staff and spear. The other, though...he could not say. 'She' was either a very mannish girl, judging by the facial hair, lack of breasts, and the protuberance at the front of her throat - or an effeminate man wearing a bright, red smock. He shook his head at the sudden, unwelcome thought of what may lie beneath the short robe.

"Ye Gods. What manner of strange folk are they?"

"It matters not what kind of people they are. It is only important to find what sort of evil follows them, and destroy it at once!" Merisoo's eyes darkened with anger.

Agnomen sighed heavily. "I protest. Let them fight their own evil. I only want for an end to this journey."

"It is my duty, my calling, to fight evil wherever I find it! I cannot curtail my vocation to suit your needs!" Merisoo glared at Agnomen.

"Yes, but my duty is escorting you back to Morrow..."

Their debate was cut short by an excited squeal from the newly-freed manly woman. "Woah! Amazing! Can you teach me how to do that?"

Merisoo smiled beatifically, directing her gaze to the Nords behind the irritated Redguard. "My magic is tied to Morrowind, Saint Nerevar, and blessed by Azura and Mephala. It only can be used by those who are loyal, righteous and wholesome. Do you walk such a path?"

The rest of the Nords could be heard snickering at the question as they shook off the remnants of the paralyzing spell.

"Nay! He...um...she has a far too...er...chaotic a personality to be considered virtuous," said the man in shiny steel armour. Sheathing his sword, he beamed as he bowed, exposing dazzling white teeth. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am the Knight, at your service."

As Agnomen reflexively shielded his eyes from the knight's brilliant smile, he heard another man speak.

"I am the Bard. I once was a barbarian, but failed miserably at fierce, frenzied combat, so decided to become a bard instead. I'm certain to live longer that way."

'If his legs work as well as his lungs,' Agnomen thought, 'he just might stand a chance of living forever.'

The bald, yellow-robed man stepped forward. "And I am the Monk," he said in a deep, solemn voice. "Though not in the to-be-blinded-by-reading-Elder-Scrolls sense of monkhood...I'm more of the adventurous, martial artist type."

Merisoo spoke next, addressing the females. "And who are you ladies?"

The red robed mystery answered first. "I am the Sorceress, also known as a witch."

"Would you not prefer to be a warlock, as you seem more male than female?" Merisoo queried, quite curious.

"I find armour too cumbersome, and my dress far more comfortable. Why is it that only women are allowed to wear clothing meant for both sexes, anyways?" the witch said caustically.

The dual-wielding woman interrupted. "Do not be concerned by our gender-confused companion, as the witch's magic can be rather useful from time to time. I am the Rogue; who might you two be?"

The Redguard bowed with great flourish. "Agnomen of Sentinel, a Ra Gada warrior."

Merisoo took in a deep breath. "I am the one once hailed as the Nerevarine, Hortator, Redoran Archmaster, Blade of the Emporer, Archmage, Fighters Guild Master, Master Thief, East Empire Company Factor, Knight of the Imperial Dragon, Tribunal Temple Patriarch, Imperial Cult Primate, and Chieftain of Thirsk Hall."

The group stepped back as one, horrified at the potential monstrosity before them.

"Since I've read that the Nerevarine disappeared over two hundred years ago, if I start screaming 'run away', will anyone try to stop me?" whimpered the unnerved bard.

Merisoo cocked an eyebrow. "I pose no threat, unless you partake in evil activities. I'm more curious about your troubles at this time. Perhaps you can give us some background information whilst we search for your enemies?"

"No need, my lady!" boomed the knight. "Two sabre cats, a cave bear, three trolls, and a dozen wolves are not true evil...merely nuisances to be avoided. Why don't we assist you in your adventures, instead? Safety in numbers, and all that!"

"How is it, though, that you are still alive after all these years," asked the witch. "And what brings you to Skyrim?"

Agnomen answered as he scanned the sky. "It's a tale which can be told as we walk, no? Let us be on our way before darkness falls."

All nodded in agreement as they set off for the main road. Along the way, Merisoo told the newcomers of her time on Vvardenfell, of being deliberately infected by a Corprus Disease-afflicted minion of Dagoth Ur, and eventually learning of her immortality once she'd found the cure. Following up with tales of her travels after leaving Morrowind, she finished with what she remembered of the great storm which beset the ship she was aboard, meant to carry her back to Solstheim.

"Which brings us full circle," Merisoo said, glancing at the darkening sky before looking back at the group. "I wish to hear of your adventures, and what brought you here."

The monk spoke. "The legend of the Dragonborn was brought to our attention by the bard. Let him tell you the tale of our deeds."

All eyes turned to the bard. "If it pleases Your Perfection, I will tell you what I've heard of the latest song concerning Skyrim's newest hero-to-be," he blubbered, still cowed by the sight of Merisoo's multitude of death-dealing paraphernalia.

Merisoo smiled, nodding in encouragement at the obviously discomfited man. "I would enjoy hearing this song, Bard. Continue."

Clearing his throat nervously, he pulled a tattered piece of paper from his pouch, and began to recite:

"And the Scrolls have foretold of black wings in the cold, that when brothers wage war come unfurled!

Alduin, Bane of Kings, ancient shadow unbound, with a hunger to swallow the world!

But a day shall arise when the dark dragon's lies will be silenced forever, and then!

Fair Skyrim will be free from foul Alduin's maw; Dragonborn be the savior of men!"

Folding the paper, he returned it to the pouch attached to his belt, and tilted his head in the direction of the large hill behind the group. "We were in search of a possible Dragonborn when we were beset by countless creatures on yonder mount."

"Hmmm. I take it this Dragonborn is holed up in a cave somewhere?" asked Merisoo.

The monk responded to Merisoo's question with a query of his own. "Is it not the concealed whom are most easily found?"

Agnomen stared at the monk, bewildered.

The rogue chuckled at his confusion. "Don't mind anything the monk has to say. I've watched him progress from being a nitwit to a moron over the years, but he's always been good to have around in a fight. As for the Dragonborn, we only know to search for a prisoner. The prison could be a cage, a cave, a dungeon...who can say? There are far too many forms of imprisonment in Skyrim."

"Aye. Only when one is shackled, can one truly be free," nodded the solemn monk.

"I'm curious about how you've survived your quest so far, Rogue," said Agnomen, barely keeping his eye-roll in check.

"Ah. In my hand I hold the Staff of Resurrection, which has revived our fallen many a time. We found it in a cave, but have no way of using it anymore, as it has lost its magic. It's not much more than a blunt object now," she sadly replied.

Merisoo held out her hand. "Give it to me, and I will replenish its charge."

The rogue blinked. "You can do that?"

"I am a Master Enchanter, girl. I can recharge anything."

"As you say." The rogue handed the staff to Merisoo. The Breton closed her eyes, and stood stock-still for a few minutes. The staff began to glow, the crystal tip thrumming with energy. As they waited, the rest of the group glanced around their environment.

Raising an arm, the witch pointed to the east. "There! The main road! What direction are we taking from here?"

"We travel north and east, to the northern Velothi Mountains, which will lead us into Morrowind," Agnomen replied.

"Alas. We mean to travel south then east. There is a gathering of rebel Nords south of Helgen. We hope to find the Dragonborn there!" said the knight. "Perhaps we can set up camp here for the night, and have a merry feast before parting ways!"

Merisoo smiled at the rogue as she handed back the fully charged staff. "A wonderful gesture, Ser Knight. Agnomen and I would be honoured to spend the eve with you, and your companions."

Agnomen could not find it in his heart to protest, as clouds were creeping over the horizon, and the sun was slowly sinking beneath the hills.

Unfortunately, he did not take into account the persuasive abilities of the rogue or the knight, for the next morning, as the campsite was being packed up, Merisoo informed him of the change in plans.

"We will head to Morrowind through the southern roads, to aid our new friends in their search for this savior of legend."

Months of pent-up rage suddenly swelled, threatening to break through the walls of Agnomen's carefully honed self-discipline and self-control. For countless weeks he'd yearned to return to his wife and son. To watch the sun rise and set over the Iliac Bay. But no! His orders were to escort this woman - this historical relic - back to Morrowind, a land that lay in waste, through another land torn apart by civil war. He had been reduced from being an elite Warrior to little more than a pack mule - a footman - in Merisoo's company. If she was so all-powerful, and could not die by mortal hand, what did she need him for?

He stormed away, before the urge to strike at Merisoo became too great to hold back. While contemplating on his possible death by Nerevarine, a quiet voice spoke up behind him, interrupting his thoughts. "Will you be travelling past Helgen, my lord?"

Agnomen looked around for the owner of the voice. His eyes widened at the sight of the young man towering over him. Well-muscled, blond of hair, and wearing little more than rough spun clothing...yet...there was something about the lad. A strange energy flowed from him...an energy he'd only felt in one other: Merisoo.

Another gods-blessed soul!

A thought struck him...only one blessed by the gods could kill another of the same ilk.

The Redguard smiled broadly at the young Nord man, barely keeping in check the pure joy rushing over him as his mind began plotting...planning...trying to remember old lessons on how many ways one could truly kill a god...

"Indeed, good man! You have need of escort to Helgen?"

"Past Helgen, into Cyrodiil, actually," said the stranger.

"Then, by all means, welcome! You and I have much to talk about on the way."


End file.
